Sword of Ice and Other Tales of Valdemar

mother after Father's death—so he vowed that none, no matter how pathetic, dire, or horrifying their circumstances, would ever touch him that deeply again.

The next thought he blamed on weariness, for this boy whom he had mistaken for an armsman nearly reached into his core to wrest some small measure of tenderness... but Olias, well-practiced in this particular art of self-defense, was able to quash the moment of vulnerability by concentrating on the skill that had gone into securing the boy to his horse.

His hands had been bound tightly together at the wrists and the bindings tied to the pommel of the saddle; there were no stirrup irons but the stirrup leathers had been left in place, used to tie the boy's calves to the saddle itself; he was belted thrice, two times at the waist—once to the pommel, once to the high cantle, using rings on the saddle meant for that purpose—and a third time around his neck. It was this last that threatened to move something buried deep in Olias' heart, for the opposite end of the leather strap had been split in two and each of the ends tied to the boy's ankles, as if he were a hog being bound for slaughter.

Olias leaned closer, sniffing the leather.

Beneath the coppery scent of blood and the charred aroma of flames and smoke, the scent of drenched hide drying was unmistakable. Whoever had bound the boy to this horse had soaked the leather straps, knowing damned well that as it dried it would shrink, tightening itself around the boy's neck and slowly crushing his throat.

Why didn't you just kill him? thought Olias. What did this boy—barely a boy, more child than boy—what did he do that was so unspeakable as to warrant this kind of sick-making punishment, this . . . torture?

Olias was still lost along such paths of thought when the boy turned his head downward—as much as the strap would allow him to—and opened his undamaged eye, which was so startlingly silver Olias felt a moment of awe tinged with fear.

'Ffrind-iau?' choked the boy. 'Caredig ffrind-iau?'

Olias puzzled over the words. He'd traveled far

through Valdemar, and had (or so he thought) encountered all of its various languages—after all, Valdemar was a patchwork quilt of a dozen different peoples escaping from a dozen different unbearable situations, and each of them had their own unique tongue which naturally would undergo changes as the various clans began to intermingle, but this boy was speaking in a language Olias had never heard before. It might have been some kind of primitive hybrid of Tayledras—Hawkbrother tongue (some of the inflections were similar)—but he doubted it; Hawkbrother tongue didn't have so many guttural clicks, nor was it nearly as musical as this boy's language. Under other circumstances, he probably wouldn't have cared at all.

But despite his defenses, despite his not understanding the words themselves, Olias Felt the pain and loneliness and fear in the boy's plea.

He unsheathed his dagger and set about cutting the straps, then lifted the boy (who was much, much larger than he first appeared) from off the horse—and nearly collapsed to the ground when the extra weight caused the bones in his wounded ankle to snap.

:Ranyart!: Olias Called, trying to balance himself on his other leg.

Ranyart ran up beside him. Olias managed to drape the boy over Ranyart's saddle, then guided both horses over to the campsite where he promptly collapsed to the ground, clutching at his broken ankle and snarling with pain.

The boy lifted his head, then pushed himself up and slid slowly from Ranyart's back and stumbled over to Olias.

'Poen?' he asked, gently placing one of his scarred and bloody hands on Olias's ankle 'Cymorth poen?'

'Don't touch it!' shouted Olias, throwing back his head and wincing. 'Gods, please . . . please don't! I—'

The boy closed his good eye, then tightened his grip. A strange bluish glow appeared under the boy's hand, quickly spilling outward to encircle Olias' ankle. And before he could further protest or strike out at the boy,

Olias felt the broken bones and tendons instantly, painlessly mend themselves. Moments later the boy helped him to his feet and Olias was dumbstruck; the ankle was fine. The boy had healed him.

Looking up, he watched as the boy set to work on his own wounds, the same bluish light emanating from his hands as he touched first his head, then face, lip, throat, chest, and legs, finally grasping each wrist in turn to remove the bruises and strap burns. Each time his hands brushed over a different area, more of his body glowed with a shimmering soft blue light until, for a moment at the end, he was encased in a spectral luminance; but in an instant the light dissolved into his flesh and he stood there, just a boy, far too large for his age but looking healthy and unharmed . . . and least outwardly. Only time would tell how much damage had been done to the boy's mind and spirit by whatever filthy, sadistic cowards had unleashed their brutality on him.

No wonder they tied your hands so tightly, thought Olias. They couldn't chance your healing yourself before the horse had carried you far away from them . . . that is, if they even knew about your healing powers. Were they afraid of something else, odd one? Were they aware of your powers, at all? Damn! What does it matter and why should I care?

Still, the thought persisted: Why hadn't they just killed him? Didn't it occur to anyone that some other traveler might chance upon the boy and set him free? Wouldn't they know if that were to happen, the boy might come back to seek vengeance?

The boy lifted his cherubic, smiling face to Olias.

Gods, thought Olias, feeling almost silly: That was not the face of one who would go seeking vengeance.

'Th-thank you,' said Olias, pointing down toward his ankle. 'It feels ... feels fine. It feels wonderful, in fact.'

The boy, his piercing, hypnotic silver gaze never wandering from Olias's eyes, simply smiled more widely and nodded his head.

'What's your name, child? Have you a name?'

The boy cocked his head to the side, the expression on his face puzzled.

Sighing, Olias stood up straight and patted his own chest with both hands. 'Olias. I am Olios.' He pointed at the boy. 'What's your name?'

The boy grinned, then stood up straight, patting his chest with both hands, and said, quite loudly, 'Olias!'

Olias groaned, shaking his head. 'No, no, no! 7 am Olias. Me. That's my name!' He pointed at the boy once again and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

The boy looked at him, opened his mouth to speak but didn't, then snapped up his head, eyes widening with understanding as he pointed to his chest and shouted, 'L'lewythi!' Pressing his hand against Olias's chest, the boy whispered, somewhat hesitantly: 'Ffrind-iau. Chi, ti L'lewythi's ffrind-iau, ydhuch?'

'Urn . . . yes,' replied Olias, nodding his head (for some reason, he sensed it was important to agree with the boy at this moment). 'Yes, of course. L'lewythi's ffrind-iau.'

L'lewythi laughed, then embraced Olias (nearly crushing his rib cage—gods, the child was strong!), patting his back several times in a gesture of thanks and affection.

'You're . . . you're welcome. I think,' responded Olias, pulling himself away from the boy and checking himself for internal bleeding, then pointing toward the fire where the squirrel-meat was roasting on a spit over the flames. 'Are you hungry?'

The boy furrowed his brow in confusion, obviously no more familiar with Olias' language than Olias was with his.

Sighing, Olias rubbed a hand over his own stomach. 'Hungry? Do you want something to eat?'

The boy tilted his head to the side, then shrugged.

His frustration growing, Olias took a calming breath and said, 'Rwy'n mynd / gael cinio. Gobeithio mai ty-wydd braf gown ni?'

Then gasped and promptly covered his mouth with his hand as the boy made a delighted sound, licked his lips, rubbed his stomach, and nodded vigorously.